


Session at Shorty's

by enviropony



Category: Lucifer (TV), Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: A Therapist Walks into a Bar, Gen, Linda Martin & Doc Holliday, Therapy, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:28:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviropony/pseuds/enviropony
Summary: "Tell you what. You listen to some of my story, you tell me what you think. If you give me advice I like, lunch and the beer are on the house."





	Session at Shorty's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertScribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertScribe/gifts).



> Prompt: A meeting between Doc Holliday of Wynonna Earp fame and Linda Martin, therapist to the Devil.

Doc is trying to sort out glasses - short ones from tall ones from ones too filthy to ever get clean - when a small woman with large glasses pokes her head into the bar.

"Excuse me, are you open? There's no sign on the door."

Doc glances at the wall clock. "Close enough to it, ma'am. Come on it. What can I get you?"

The woman seats herself daintily at the bar and asks, "What local microbrew do you recommend?"

Doc purses his lips in thought. "Ghost River Porter, if you like the darker beers. Purgatory Pale Ale if you prefer something light." He starts to reach for the pale ale, but she surprises him.

"The porter sounds good. I don't suppose your kitchen is open yet?"

Doc changes direction, grabs a porter out of the bottle cooler and pops the lid off. "Cook don't get in for another hour, but I could make you a sandwich."

"If it's not too much trouble. I know I should go to the diner for lunch, but I really need this beer." The lady takes a healthy swig from the bottle. "Rough day."

"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Give me a few minutes, and I'll have something out for you. Smoked ham all right?"

"Oh, yes, that would be just the thing," the lady says. Doc can't tell if she's being honest or polite, but he leaves off sorting the glasses and goes to the kitchen. He whistles while he makes the sandwich, trying hard not to think of anything other than ham and butter and lettuce and tomatoes. He grabs an apple out of the fridge and puts it on the plate next to the sandwich, then pushes his way out into the bar.

"Got some potato chips, too, if you like those," he says, setting the plate in front of his guest. 

"That would be lovely, thank you." 

Doc goes back to sorting glasses while the lady eats. He's grateful for the distraction of her company; he doesn't want to think about the baby girl he got to hold for just a minute, or the way Wynonna's avoiding him, or the fact that he's suddenly mortal again. He is not looking forward to the hell-sent craziness they're teetering on the edge of. He just wants to run his bar in peace for a while.

"You seem a little too lost in your thoughts," the lady says after she's finished her sandwich. The bag of chips is open, and she's rolling the apple around in her hands. "If I might be so bold."

"Rough month," Doc says. "Trying _not_ to think about it."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," she echoes his earlier sentiment. "If you're willing to listen to a suggestion..."

"Oh, by all means, ma'am," he says, not even a little sarcastic. "I am all ears."

"As much as you'd like to avoid whatever unpleasant things happened, the best - the healthiest - way to cope with the fallout is to examine the events with a rational mind, and talk through them, preferably with a professional."

"A professional what?"

"A therapist. Maybe even a psychiatrist if you're finding it exceptionally difficult to lead your daily life." The lady has become more animated as she talks, but now she sputters to a stop and blushes. "Forgive me. I'm a therapist, and sometimes I can't stop myself from trying to help other people. It's a bad habit. I usually have it under better control."

"It's no problem, ma'am, and I appreciate the effort," Doc says, because it's as sweet as it is presumptuous, her trying to make him feel better. "I don't think we have any of these... professional therapists in Purgatory, though."

"Maybe in the city? I know it's a drive, but it might be worth it. Just something to consider," she finishes, abashed. 

"And I will certainly consider it," Doc allows, "though I doubt anyone will believe some of the things I've seen."

The lady laughs. "Oh, you'd be surprised! At what I'll believe, at any rate."

"Oh, really?" He feels a little venturesome, and says, "Tell you what. You listen to some of my story, you tell me what you think. If you give me advice I like, lunch and the beer are on the house." He's certain she'll tell him he's a lunatic. Nobody outside of Purgatory believes what goes on here.

"You're on," she replies, and puts a hand out over the bar. "My name is Linda Martin."

Doc takes it like the gentleman he is. "Doc Holliday, ma'am."

Linda blinks. "Your parents were Wyatt Earp fans? That's an unusual name to be saddled with in this day and age."

"That's because it's not from this day and age," Doc says. "I am not named after Doc Holliday, I _am_ Doc Holliday. John Henry Holliday, to be precise. To make a long story short, I was put down a well and left there, fortunately with a trinket that protected me from death. About two years ago, I was freed from the well, and now I own and run this fine establishment." He gestures at the room around them.

Linda is watching him, blank-faced; he can't tell what she's thinking.

"Well, that is quite the story," she says finally, and seems to settle in on her bar stool. "Tell me, do you miss your old life. Is it hard being here? Have you made friends in the community?"

"I don't miss it, no. I betrayed a friend, and was betrayed in turn, and I don't miss any of that because it all followed me here," Doc says wryly, "either in person, or as a consequence. I have made friends, and the only difficult thing about being here is the sheer tonnage of supernatural freakishness that the Ghost River Triangle attracts. Oh, and I am mortal now, and that is a little unnerving."

Linda frowns minutely. "You... lost the trinket that protected you from death?"

"It was destroyed," Doc says bitterly. "For good reason, I grant you, but that does not make it easier to deal with my renewed fragile status. Also, I spent some time in hell." 

That's toeing the edge of what he's willing to divulge. He's not going to talk about Wynonna, or his daughter. That's a few steps too far to go with a stranger. 

Linda seems to perk up at the mention of hell. "What was that like?"

"You'd expect fire and brimstone, wouldn't you?" Doc says, fighting down a shiver. "But it's not like that at all. It's all dark stone and ash in the air, wicked cold. They shove you through a door, and you're suddenly living your worst moments over again. And again and again..." He trails off. It's harder to think about than he expected.

Linda makes a sympathetic face, and nods as if she knows what he's talking about. "Reliving the things that make you feel guilty is difficult even when it's just a memory. But to have to go through it over and over can drain us beyond hope and endurance." She pauses, as if weighing her next words. "This will be easier to hear than it will be to do, but it really is the only way to free yourself from hell. I have _that_ on good authority. You have to let go of your guilt."

Doc blinks. "I'm responsible for my actions. I won't deny that."

"Guilt and responsibility are not the same thing," Linda says. "Guilt weighs you down. It makes you unable to think logically. You need to step back from the events in question, and examine them... almost as if you were another person. Accept that you are responsible - part of guilt is wishing that it weren't so - and accept that you hurt someone. Ask them for forgiveness if you can, but ask yourself for forgiveness, also. Few of us are inherently bad people, Mr. Holliday. We fall victim to circumstance, mental illness, fear, outside pressure, but that does not make us evil. That makes us flawed - human. Forgive yourself for being human. Learn from your mistakes. Aspire to do better. Let go of your guilt and you will free yourself from hell."

Doc considers her as she talks, calm and self-assured, and wishes it were that easy. Then he says it.

"I did say it was easier to hear than do," Linda reminds him, "but I promise you, it's the healthiest course you can take, and the best way to keep yourself out of hell."

"I will take your advice under consideration," Doc says. "And I commend you for not consigning me to the realm of the crazy and unstable for what I have told you."

"It helps nobody to call you crazy or unstable," Linda says. "Whether you are telling the truth or speaking in metaphors, your troubles are real, and the advice is the same. But," she leans forward and continues with a confidential smile, "I think you're not speaking in metaphors."

"Oh? And what convinced you of that?"

"Let's just say that I have a patient who's really expanded my world."

"Well, that's almost comforting to hear," Doc says. "There are a lot of things out there that people would do well not to dismiss."

Linda opens her mouth to reply, but her cell phone rings. "Excuse me," she says, pulling it out. "Oh, and speak of the Devil. Hello, Lucifer. Yes. No. No, Lucifer. No, Lucifer! Who owes you a favor? You do know I'm in Canada, right? _That_ Justin? I don't want to know. Yes, all right. Thank you, I really appreciate it." She ends the call, and gives Doc an apologetic smile. "I hate to cut this short - I'd love to hear about the Wild West, to be honest - but Lucifer's sent a plane for me. Do you know anyone who could help me get to the airport?"

Lucifer. What a name. "I'll call Officer Haught, she'll know someone. Oh, and lunch is on the house."

"So you liked what I said?"

"Well, I'm certainly willing to give it a try, ma'am."

\- - -

The next time Doc lands in Hell, he remembers what Miss Linda said, and he forgives himself for his selfishness and his mistakes. They happened, and he accepts that. He accepts that he has done his best to make amends.

He feels a lightening sensation, as if he's becoming weightless, a cloud. His vision goes white, and then resolves into bright, welcoming colors. 

His Ma is waiting for him at the gates of Heaven.

-end-


End file.
